


Choice's Harbinger

by Rivalry_of_Destiny



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, One-Shot, how detailed can I make that storm I wonder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 02:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8082898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivalry_of_Destiny/pseuds/Rivalry_of_Destiny
Summary: There is a harbinger of death ridings the waves on the path of slaughter it had built through pestilence while cracking its whip on the front steps of their home, and all they can do is ogle like deer caught headlights. Only, they're not the ones going to be run over; it's Joyce who's going to be crushed back to the diner wall with her tray in hand, it's Warren who's going to be caught still in fear and woe as he wishes he could have spent more time with Max and salt water begins to suffocate his lungs, it's David who had just escaped the battlefield to find its friend smiling at him in nostalgic glee, it's Victoria who now sees how futile wearing her Dior dress set was today because dying in style is so little compared to living in it as a wayward, broken piece of bark pieces her chest, and it's Samuel who stares up at the sight in acceptance and gently lets go of his broom because oh, finally, it's time .





	

_"The Dark Messenger fades away, spreading its mark through the air, leaving only sorrow and regrets behind its wingbeats."_

_-Pyrogas-Sipo_

 

Max has never seen a storm so big, so cruel and merciless; she realizes  this as terror sinks into her feet, making them heavy as wet wind burrows into her face and hair and clothes.

Max realizes, with a boiling sense of wrath, that that storm does not heed to her commands nor her sense of guilt contrived from putting it there in the first place.

She realizes, that the storm does not care if it itself is there or not, only seeking to fulfill its purpose because it _is_ and it _can_ and it _will_.

She may have fallen to her knees if the harsh, indomitable air currents would have let her - another thing it was taking from her in this twisted, give and take relationship she and the storm shared.

Gray swirling clouds spin round and round like a yo-yo on an axis, metamorphosing into dark ugly black ones and driving through the eye into to the bottom, where everything looks as if it has turned into a void that, if anyone were to fall through the cracks, would find themselves in a chaotically desolate version of Tartarus.

White wisps of aerosol crown themselves around the storm, breaking and riveting like ribbons or streamers would from around a Christmas tree, as if the inevitability of the death before them was a tangible being that needed validation and beauty in its endeavor.

There is no protection against the soaring tides of the ocean that tear and claw in a maddening frenzy, there is no protection against the gales that beat and pull in a sense of wanton insanity, there is no protection against the tempest that seeks justice in a world of misdeed where what is right is drastic and bloodthirsty.

Chloe bumps into her, on accident she knows, but they are both so overcome by the sight before their eyes that they do nothing else but turn to one another and stare.

There is a harbinger of death ridings the waves on the path of slaughter it had built through pestilence while cracking its whip on the front steps of their home, and all they can do is ogle like deer caught headlights. Only, they're not the ones going to be run over; it's Joyce who's going to be crushed back to the diner wall with her tray in hand, it's Warren who's going to be caught still in fear and woe as he wishes he could have spent more time with Max and salt water begins to suffocate his lungs, it's David who had just escaped the battlefield to find its friend smiling at him in nostalgic glee, it's Victoria who now sees how futile wearing her Dior dress set was today because dying in style is so little compared to living in it as a wayward, broken piece of bark pieces her chest, and it's Samuel who stares up at the sight in acceptance and gently lets go of his broom because oh, _finally,_ **_it's time_ ** _._

In the raging silence, it's Chloe who breaks, sparks like a neuron into action first.

"Max," she says, her voice piercing Max's conscience like it always has. "This is the only way." Her hand touches hers, and something is settled firmly into her grasp, between her fingers.

Max looks down, staring at the blue winged butterfly photograph, feeling as if she had gotten out Mike's polaroid and taken the shot a thousand years ago. She voices this. But Chloe isn't listening.

"You could use that photo to change everything back, to when you took that picture..."

Chloe refuses to meet Max's confused, slowly horrified churning face. "All that would take is for me to... to..."

"Fuck that! No... no way!" She gets all up in Chloe's space, pushing the blue-haired girl's hands from her face and taking them in her own. "You are my number one priority right now. You are all that matters to me."

It was true; there was no one Max cared about greater than Chloe. They were friends, _best_ friends, maybe even more -- but regardless, you don't just sacrifice your best friend, no matter what it's for in return.

"I know!"

Chloe always thought it had been a good thing, a pleasurable thing, a blessing -- even -- to be the center of someone's love, but now her chest feels as if someone has their hand between her ribs and over her heart and is squeezing over and over and _over again_ until it _stops_. She wishes it would. Maybe it will.

"I know," she repeats, "you proved that over and over again... Even though I don't deserve it." Thunder roars behind them. "I'm so selfish, not like my mom, look what she had to give up and live through, and she did! She deserves so much more than to be killed by a storm in a fucking diner!

"Even my step... F - Father deserves her alive. There are so many more people in Arcadia Bay who should live. Way more than me."

"Don't say that," Max squeaks, her throat tightening, "I won't trade you!"

"You're not trading me, maybe you've just been.. delaying my real "destiny", LOOK at how many times I've died, or have actually died around you. LOOK at what's happened in Arcadia Bay ever since you first saved me. I know I've been selfish, but for once I think I should accept my fate... our fate!" Chloe grabs onto Max's shoulders, keeping her from turning her back on this. On her. On them. On everything.

Max wants to slips away then, wanting to escape, but there is nowhere to run and hide. She doesn't want to hear this.

"Max, you finally came back to me this week, and you did nothing but show me your love and friendship. You made me smile, and laugh, like I haven't done in _years_."

Max's eyes hurt, but she afraid that the moment she lifts her hands to rub them, the tears will fall -- so instead she grips them into fists; her nails cutting into her flesh somehow keeps her sane. "But you're not! You're not smiling, or laughing! Not right now! Not anymore! You're asking me to kill you, Chloe, and I... I..."

Suddenly blue hair is all she sees as she's engulfed in an embrace that she never thought could ever be so cold. "Wherever I end up after this... In whatever reality all those moments between us were real, and they'll always be ours." Chloe's voice is right in her ear, her breath haunting over her skin and making a shiver crawl up her spine. "I know that whatever you choose, you'll make the right decision. Max."

"Chloe, no... I - I can't make this choice...!" Max's voice is forced and constricted against her windpipes, and it's obvious she is nearing her breaking point.

"No, Max. You're the only one that can."

 

⠺⠑⠇⠏⠀⠎⠓⠊⠞

 

Choice. It had always been a hard thing for Max, because she never knew if the outcome would be truly what she wanted, or who would be affected by its consequences, and how.

Choice was a concept that not everything was set in stone, that it wasn't futile to think for yourself and wonder and wonder about endless possibilities, because choice was their child and life signed the adoption papers when it was given to you.

Choice was a promise that it would never abandon you, as long as you had the brains and will to see it and never the audacity to deny it.

Choice was a being that played at her strings as if it were a puppet master, playing them like a harp while it sat atop her shoulders, whispering sweet _nothings_ into her ears and wrapping itself around her neck like a noose.

Choice was the rain that swept across her car window and made her happy she had shelter -- she was thankful for choice then, while it made other people sad or angry or scared when they were not so lucky with its ever-so helping hand.

Choice was a bully dressed like an angel that soared through the heavens and among the stars, utterly alone in its solitude but singing for an audience in its prison.

And so, when choice gently brought its hand to Max's door and knocked three times, so sadistically, she realized there was no window or fire escape to jump through.

And so, when choice walked through her front door and asked if she had any coffee, the only thing she could say was yes.

 


End file.
